


In Vino Veritas

by darnedchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Byron the annoyingly helpful cabbie, Drunk Molly, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8050150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darnedchild/pseuds/darnedchild
Summary: Alcohol has a habit of loosening the lips, as Sherlock discovers when he escorts his tipsy pathologist home from a night out with Mary. Molly's got nothing left to lose and some very definite opinions about Sherlock's purple shirt.Will be two parts total.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for beta'ing this thing for me.

  
  


The buzzing of his phone brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. He leaned over the side of his chair to snatch the offending item off the floor where he'd tossed it earlier in the evening.

His eyebrows arched in surprise as he scrolled past four—no five—texts from John to open the most recent.

**Call me. NOW - JW**

He hit the call button and held the mobile up to his ear as he slouched back into the chair once more. Sherlock started speaking the moment John answered. "Didn't you make me swear not to call you this evening because you were having a daddy/daughter night with Lizzie so Mary could have a night out with 'the girls'?" He made sure to draw out the last two words as derisively as possible.

He could hear John huff in annoyance on the other end of the line. "Yes, well, normally I'd make more of an effort to praise your restraint, but we're in a bit of a bind over here."

Sherlock sat up sharply, feet planted firmly on the ground. "Is it Lizzie? Mary? Is one of you hurt?"

His friend's impatient tone softened somewhat at Sherlock's obvious concern. "The three of us are fine. Mary's going to have a bear of a hangover in the morning, but that should be the worst of it. No, it's Molly-"

Sherlock cut him off with a startled, "Molly?"

"Yeah?" John replied. His voice dropped to a soft whisper, as if he were trying to keep someone from overhearing him. "She and Mary get together for coffee sometimes. Mary's been feeling a bit sorry for her the last few weeks, ever since that Tom bloke she'd been engaged to sent her an invite to his upcoming wedding."

Sherlock broke in again. "He did what?" That was definitely a piece of information that would need to be examined in depth in the future.

"That's what Mary said." John paused for a long moment. "Molly didn't tell you?"

She hadn't actually. Why hadn't she? Did she think he wouldn't care? Admittedly, he usually didn't have time for other people's sentimental babbling, but she had to have noticed the effort he'd been making of late? How he paid attention when she talked—unless he was actively focused on a case, obviously, although Molly rarely interrupted him with trivial things when he was working. He'd even made note when she'd mentioned the annoying intern from gynaecology who was always hanging around the cafeteria when she had lunch. He'd had Mike get the twit transferred to another hospital.

Sherlock told himself he'd think about the implications of all of that later.

"Unimportant. What's wrong with Molly?" Whatever it was couldn't have been serious or John wouldn't have let himself get distracted. Sherlock cast a searching glance around his sitting room in the hopes of locating his shoes.

"She's drunk, mate."

"Is that all?" Sherlock relaxed back into his chair, relieved.

"Don't I wish," John muttered. "After dinner tonight, the entire group of ladies decided to visit a club for more 'drinkies'. Eventually Mary and Molly managed to pour themselves into a taxi and make their way back here. I tried sobering them up with coffee, but they're having none of it."

"And?" Sherlock prompted, wondering what any of that had to do with him.

"They're in the sitting room, giggling like school girls." John's voice dropped to a whisper again. "Comparing notes on their respective sex lives. I hope to God neither of them remember any of this in the morning. I am really uncomfortable with Molly knowing how big my . . . I'm just very uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation, and I'll leave it at that."

Sherlock tried to shake that mental image out of his brain. "I don't see what you expect me to do about it."

"They're looking at me and laughing now. Oh, God, why are they laughing? Listen to me, Sherlock. You need to come take Molly home. I can't leave Mary and Lizzie here like this, and I won't send Molly off alone in a cab in her current condition."

"Let her sleep it off on your settee." That was clearly the most logical solution, Sherlock thought.

"And listen to the two of them cackling for the rest of the night? I don't think so." John growled into the phone, "Come get your pathologist or so help me I will tell them every gory detail about what I saw that horrible day you thought I was staying at Sarah's and you decided it was too much effort to put on some damn pants or even wrap yourself in a bloody sheet before strolling into the kitchen for a morning cup of tea!"

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why he should care if John told Molly and Mary about his endowments, then he remembered the morning in question. It had been rather cold to start with, and then John's screeching had brought Mrs Hudson running up the stairs as well, which only made things shrink even further. He gulped. "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Twenty-five if the cabbie wants to earn his tip."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly, at least, had had the good grace to look slightly abashed when he'd shown up at the Watson's door twenty-eight minutes after John had hung up on him. Mary, however, hadn't looked sorry at all. She'd thrown Molly an exaggerated wink and a "Go get 'em, girl" as Sherlock helped his inebriated charge into the back of the cab.

He gave the driver Molly's address and settled himself against the uncomfortable faux-leather seat.

Almost immediately Molly leaned into his arm and smiled up at him. "It was very nice of you to come all the way out here just to get me."

He briefly considered moving away but decided he actually liked the warmth of her body against his side, and it wouldn't hurt to stay close just this once.

"Yes, well, John didn't really give me much of a choice." Sherlock grimaced as soon as the words escaped his lips. Even he recognized how rude he'd sounded.

Molly's smile only dimmed for a second. "Still, you came to rescue me regardless. My knight in shining armour. Or dark Belstaff, I suppose."

Considering he'd only agreed to keep John from sharing what would undoubtedly have been an extremely unflattering account of his bits with Molly and Mary, Sherlock wasn't sure his actions could really be considered chivalrous in any way.

He hummed non-committedly and looked out the car window. Molly seemed content to rest her head against his shoulder for several minutes.

"I love looking at your hands."

His gaze automatically dropped to one of his hands where it was resting on his thigh. What was one supposed to say to something like that? "Uhm, thank you?"

Molly reached out to grasp his hand, lifting it closer so she could examine the elegant digits. "Such long fingers. I bet you could do so many delicious things with them." She sighed longingly and slid her fingers between his in a way that made him suck in a sharp breath.

He gently detangled his hand from hers and called out to the cabbie, "How much longer?"

Molly let him go without an argument, although she did turn toward him so that her chest was pressed against his arm. "Do you think it's true? That the size of a man's hands and feet are indications of the size of his . . . well, you know."

Sherlock was too busy trying to ignore the feel of her firm breasts to concentrate on what she was saying. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'd love to see it."

He looked down at her, a confused frown on his lips. "See what?"

She drew one leg under her so that she could rise up enough to bring her mouth level to his ear. He could feel her breath—hot and damp—as she whispered two little words that sent a bolt of electricity straight to his groin, "Your cock."

He sputtered the first thing his temporarily short circuited mind could come up with. "Here?"

Molly laughed—low, husky, not at all the sort of sound that Sherlock was used to hearing from her—and put her hand on his thigh. "How naughty! I was thinking somewhere a lot more private, but I'm game if you are." Before he could stop her, she cupped his groin.

Sherlock was unable to contain the low groan that escaped his lips when she squeezed his length with her small hand. The last person to touch him intimately had been Janine, and he'd never really enjoyed or tolerated her efforts for longer than absolutely necessary to continue the charade of an adoring boyfriend. This was different, this was exciting and arousing, this was . . . a seriously bad idea since they were in the back of a cab and Molly was drunk off her arse.

He grasped her wrist and tried to gently remove her hand from his person. As petite as she was, Molly was no delicate flower and she was in no mood to release her prize. The more he tried to restrain her wandering hands, the more she giggled and peppered kisses along his neck.

After a short scuffle Sherlock ended up pressing her back against the seat, weighing her down with his chest against hers. "Hands off, Molly. You're drunk and we are not doing this."

She held up her hands in surrender. "No hands."

Sherlock backed off, eyeing her suspiciously. He'd expected to see a pout form on her lips and was a little disconcerted to see a devilish smile there instead.

"I'd prefer to use my mouth anyway."

He growled her name, both annoyed and inexplicably aroused.

She licked her lips, and then laughed at the expression on his face and the way his eyes tracked the movement of her tongue. "Oh come on, Sherlock. I can't be the first person to offer to suck your co-"

"Molly!"

She rolled her eyes and petulantly crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. Spoilsport."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, although Sherlock remained tense and on alert. He watched her from the corner of his eye, prepared to dodge her drunken advances should she make any. She quietly chewed at her lower lip rather than reach for him, and he told himself that he wasn't disappointed in the least.

Eventually she spoke again. "If you're afraid that I'm rubbish at it, I'm not. I'm very good, you know."

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure you are."

"I've always believed that if you're going to do something, you should do it right." Molly leaned toward him earnestly; although, he noted, she kept her hands to herself. "Do some research beforehand to make sure you're prepared, but don't be afraid to experiment a little. What was the other thing? Oh, yes, visualize the steps toward reaching your goal!" She flopped back against the seat with a dreamy sigh. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about the needy noises you'd make when I'd wrap my lips around your-"

"For God's sake, Molly, that is enough!" Sherlock felt his skin flush red and hot as he met the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror.

He couldn't remember ever imagining that sort of scenario with Molly before (oral sex in the back of a car, specifically, with or without the audience); and there had been more than a handful of fantasies staring the petite pathologist over the years, much to Sherlock's annoyance. He suspected it would be popping into his head at the most inconvenient times now.

"It's because I'm not your type, isn't it? I'm not tall enough and-and . . ." Molly fumbled for the best way to get her thoughts across; finally resorting to holding up her hands in front of her chest as if she were cupping a pair of large melons as she said, "Pretty."

In the moment it took Sherlock's normally brilliant brain to process what her pantomime meant—In his defence, her gesture had drawn his attention to her breasts and he'd been forced to waste several valuable seconds pushing the disturbingly familiar thought of how well they'd fit in his hands to the back of his mind.—the cabbie piped up. "Aww, don't listen to him, luv. I think you're very pretty."

Sherlock glared at the other man. It was an expression that should have seen the cabbie running, but all it earned Sherlock in response was a grin in the rear view. He turned to Molly and whatever he'd been about to say vanished under the threat of the unshed tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

She sniffed and scrubbed a hand across her nose.

"It's fine. I understand, really I do. Sometimes people just aren't attracted to certain other people. And I'm usually much better at accepting that, you know I am, I just . . ."

"I never said I thought you weren't pretty," Sherlock cut in. "Never."

He reached for one of her hands and held it between both of his own. "Listen to me, Molly. I swear, if I were interested in doing that sort of thing with anyone, I would be extremely lucky and honoured to experience it with you."

"Really?"

It might have been his imagination, but he thought she had begun to look a little less upset.

"Absolutely."

"For the record, I am interested in doing that sort of thing, am currently single, and I would also feel very lucky should the pretty lady decide I'm worth the effort," offered the increasingly more irritating cabbie. He took his eyes off the road long enough to turn and wink at Molly.

"Duly noted, now bugger off," Sherlock growled back.

Molly slid forward to the edge of the seat so she could better speak to the other man. "That's strangely sweet of you, Mr-?"

"Name's Byron, Miss."

"Well, thank you, Byron. However, I think you may have the wrong impression of me. I don't usually proposition men in the back of cabs. Or anywhere, actually. This is really a special case. I've known Sherlock for ages, and he already knew I used to have a crush on him. I've had a bit to drink, and Mary kept telling me I really didn't have anything to lose at this point so I should just go for it before I lost my nerve. I fully intended to chicken out as soon as we left her place, you see, but Sherlock is wearing the purple shirt. God, I love this shirt." She turned her attention to the garment in question and reverently brushed her fingertips against the silky material over his chest. "It always makes me want to rip open those straining buttons and just . . . lick everything."

Sherlock choked and slapped a hand over Molly's questing fingers before they could do more than pluck at the first button she'd reached.

She pouted for a moment, then pulled her hand free. "It's really not fair to constantly tease a girl like that. Right, Byron? I mean wouldn't you be tempted if the promise of those abs kept taunting you behind that obscenely tight shirt? Doesn't he look positively edible?"

"Yeah, I'm ah-I'm not really partial to purple myself, sorry. Can make a bloke look a bit sallow, honestly." Byron shrugged. "Just my opinion."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be relieved or insulted. He definitely didn't appreciate the way the man kept hitting on Molly.

He quickly abandoned all thoughts of the cab driver as Molly's words echoed through his mind palace one more time.

"You said always. Surely you don't mean at Barts, when we're in the morgue or the lab?"

"Perhaps not the morgue, but definitely in the lab. Especially when you've taken your jacket off while you work, and then you do that thing where you lean back to stretch. Last week you rolled your shoulders and that button right there held on for just a moment before giving in to the inevitable and popping open. Do you have any idea how alluring your suprasternal notch is? Even though I knew it would end poorly, I still very nearly asked if you'd like to have coffee. With me, specifically. Not just in general."

"Coffee." Sherlock remembered the first time she'd worked up the nerve to ask him if he'd like to have coffee. At the time he'd noted her flushed cheeks and the slight dilation of her pupils, but he'd intentionally misinterpreted the signs so he could avoid dealing with the deeper implications of her aroused state. Now though . . .

"Is coffee some sort of code for oral sex? Like 'having dinner' when you aren't hungry is a way to discretely ask if someone wants to have penetrative sex?" Considering what had transpired earlier, Sherlock felt the need to clarify things. Another thought struck him and he blanched. "Oh, God. What does it mean when your housekeeper continually offers you tea and biscuits when you aren't thirsty?"

"No! Coffee is just having coffee and talking, a 'spend more time with you' date-ish sort of thing." Molly stared at him as if he'd said something particularly perplexing.

"Unless you've been invited up to their's for coffee after a night out," the cabbie helpfully interjected. "Then you have to read the signals, mate, because it could just be a cup of joe and conversation, or it could be 'let's skip the cuppa and get straight to getting naked'. It can get a wee bit awkward if you mix the two up."

Molly blushed. "Fair point. But in the lab, coffee strictly means coffee, Sherlock."

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Sherlock purred, surprising himself. He hadn't a clue why he'd teased her, but he had to admit that his pulse sped up when her blush intensified and her pupils dilated at his question.

"Yes!" Molly squeaked and quickly looked away.

He knew right then that if he were to push the matter one day (Which he wouldn't because he wasn't interested in a sexual relationship, was he?) that Molly Hooper's resolve would collapse like a house of cards. He had little doubt that with the right words and a calculated deployment of her favourite purple shirt, he could have her panting his name in a supply cupboard in a fairly short time frame. The idea was unexpectedly intriguing.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts had begun to travel in, Molly tried to change the subject. "And who told you asking someone out to dinner really meant asking for sex?"

Sherlock winced. He waved his hand dismissively. "Just something I overheard, it's not important."

She rolled her eyes and looked out the window on her side of the vehicle. "Oh, good, we're almost home."

"Molly?" He waited until she turned her attention back to him, a soft half-smile on her lips. "Even after all this time, and all the things I've said and done, you still wanted to ask me out for coffee? The normal kind, not the other one." How was that even possible?

"Silly man, of course I do." She reached out and took his hand, and he let her. "You're one of my closest friends and you know some brilliant stories. Why wouldn't I want to spend more time with you?" She smiled sweetly at him.

He tentatively smiled back.

"And now I'm going to ruin this tender moment by saying two things. One, I really need a wee." Molly laughed and pulled her hand free. "Two, and this is definitely the alcohol and Mary's pep talk speaking, and I am absolutely positive I'm going to regret admitting this in the morning, but I've already burnt this particular bridge so what the hell."

She cast a quick glance toward the cab driver who was devoting far too much attention to what was going on in the backseat in Sherlock's opinion, then leaned close to whisper in the curious detective's ear. "The last time you stayed over in my room, I ended up touching myself in the bath. I even left the door unlocked in case you heard me moaning your name and wanted to join me. In other words, I wouldn't turn you down if you asked me for coffee. Either kind. Or even your idea of dinner."

He could do nothing more than blink as she retreated. He registered that the cab had stopped simply because Molly slipped past him with a giggle and a quick kiss on his cheek before pushing open the door and exiting the vehicle.

"I know it's none of my business, but would you like a bit of advice?"

Sherlock looked at the driver—who was fully turned to face him, one arm thrown over the back of the front seat—and frowned. Why would he want any advice from a man he'd just met and would surely delete the moment he stepped foot in Baker Street? Any port in a storm, he supposed. "God, yes."

"If you've got any feelings for her at all, you need to follow your lady friend inside and tell her. Elsewise she's going to sober up, remember everything that happened tonight, and feel utterly humiliated. You've got to head that off before it gets a foothold if you don't want her to avoid you for the next ten years. Unless that's what you want? Her to bugger off to parts unknown every time you show your face."

"No! No, I—no." Sherlock shook his head and watched as Molly dug through her bag for her keys. She was awkwardly balanced on one leg, the other knee drawn up to provide a makeshift surface to place several items on as she pulled them free from the interior of her purse. "That's the last thing I want."

"I thought so. Should I wait for you to come back out so I can take you somewhere else, mate? Or are you going to be staying awhile?"

Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. As Molly finally fit her key into the lock, he made his decision. By the time she had the large door pushed open and aimed a wiggly fingered wave goodbye in his direction, Sherlock had pulled several notes from his wallet—enough for the fare and a large tip—and passed them to the cabbie.

"Don't wait."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

It was late morning before Molly eventually made her way into the sitting room.

Sherlock had heard her stirring earlier and then the sound of the shower not long after that.

It hadn't taken much for him picture her opening her soft brown eyes to the sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She'd discover the Paracetamol and water he'd left on her nightstand, knowing she'd most likely wake up feeling like rubbish. Sherlock had insisted she hydrate the night before, refusing to let her go to bed until she'd drunk an entire bottle of water.

After she pulled back the covers, she might wonder at the state of her nightwear. Molly had insisted on changing for bed without any assistance from him once she'd confirmed that he had no intention of joining her. He hadn't been about to point out that she'd put the oversized tee shirt on inside out or that she'd forgotten to remove one of her socks.

As much as he'd wanted to, it hadn't seemed like the right moment to take the cab driver's advice to tell Molly that he had 'feelings' for her. Sherlock didn't think he could define what those feelings were, exactly, but the thought of Molly drawing away and avoiding him made his chest ache. After last night there was no longer any point to denying that he found her physically attractive in addition to the emotional attachment that had stealthily grown stronger over the years. It was time to stop fighting and admit that he wanted Molly Hooper in his life as more than just his pathologist and friend.

Instead of telling her any of that, he'd sent her off to bed in her inside-out St. Bartholomew Bruisers softball jersey (a far too tempting pair of bubblegum pink knickers barely visible underneath) with no hint of the decision he'd made. No matter what lascivious things she'd whispered in his ear during the cab ride, only an arse of epic proportions would take advantage of a drunk woman.

So he settled in to wait—catching a few hours of sleep on her settee—until enough time had passed that he thought Molly should be feeling a bit more human.

And, more importantly, completely sober.

Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and worked out the various kinks that developed when someone of his height slept on a settee the size of Molly's. He shrugged back into the shirt he'd removed at some point in an effort to make himself slightly more comfortable during the night, but didn't bother to fasten any of the buttons.

The sight of her shuffling into view—clutching a pair of empty water bottles in her arms, hair freshly washed and dried and loose around her shoulders, wrapped in an old silk dressing gown he'd left behind after one of his extended stays—made his chest ache. He was grateful that she didn't notice him for a long moment, it gave him a chance to catch his breath.

"Morning, Molly."

She screamed and stumbled, one of the bottles bouncing off the floor near her feet. "Sherlock! What are you doing here?"

"I brought you home last night, don't you remember?"

"I do, yes. Sort of wish I didn't, but I do." She clutched her remaining bottle closer to her chest and blushed. "Listen, Sherlock, about the things I said last night . . ."

He could tell she was going to suggest they forget about all of it, and there was no way he was going to let that happen. "Feeling better? Headache gone?"

"Erm, yes. Thank you." Molly looked longingly toward the kitchen and a potential reprieve from what was sure to be an awkward discussion. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder where the bold woman from last night had gone, and what he would have to do to get her back.

"Can I get you anything? Breakfast? More water?" Sherlock offered. He rested his arms along the back of the settee and widened the distance between his knees enough to draw the material of his trousers taut across his thighs. He saw Molly's eyes widen when the movement drew her gaze to his bare chest and lower. It was all he could do to keep a pleased smirk off his lips.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you for staying last night, and, uhm, for making sure I made it to bed instead of passing out in the hall or something. But I imagine you need to get back to Baker Street." She sounded rather hopeful at the idea. "Cases won't solve themselves, and all that."

"Nope." He popped the 'p' in the way that John found particularly obnoxious, but Molly seemed to find strangely amusing judging by the small smiles she could never quite hide when they were all working in the Barts' lab. "I've cleared my schedule for the entire day, and told Graham not to call me for anything less than a nine."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would you do that?"

"To spend the day with you, obviously."

Molly flushed and looked away from his intent gaze. She bent down to pick up the fallen bottle, giving him what was surely a purely accidental glimpse down the front of his old dressing gown. He felt his prick begin to stir in anticipation.

She straightened and cleared her throat. "You want to talk about what I said last night. Look, Sherlock, I was really, really drunk and-"

"Did you mean it?"

Molly's mouth gaped open for a second before she stuttered, "P-pardon?"

Even from across the room he could see the way her breath quickened and her eyes darkened. Exactly the sort of reaction he'd hoped for. "Did you mean it when you said you wanted to sleep with me?" He let the timbre of his voice drop low and smooth. "That you wanted to . . . suck my cock?"

All the colour drained from Molly's face as she stood there staring at him, clearly stunned. As the silence stretched, Sherlock began to wonder if he'd miscalculated somehow.

He could see the exact moment when she decided to throw caution to the wind and risk it. What had Mary told her last night? That she had nothing to lose?

Molly lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and defiantly met his eyes for the first time since she'd stepped into the sitting room. "I meant every word."

Sherlock lowered his hands to his bare stomach and held Molly's gaze as he oh-so-slowly slid one down to palm his growing arousal. She gasped when he popped open the button at his fly with a twist of his fingers. "Then come here and prove it."

The water bottles flew in the general direction of a nearby chair as Molly rapidly moved toward him. "I thought you weren't interested? What changed your mind?"

As soon as she was close enough, he reached out to pull her toward his lap. Sherlock was pleased when she straddled his legs without prompting, settling her bum on his thighs as she faced him. "Let's just say that once I had a chance to think about it, I found your argument last night to be extremely persuasive, but you were drunk."

"I'm not drunk now." Molly looped her arms around his neck.

"Noted." He threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and guided her ever closer so that he could brand her lips with a searing, open-mouthed kiss.

The sensory input almost overwhelmed him: the taste of her, the scratch of her nails against his scalp, the soft, cool slide of the dressing gown against his chest, even the scent of her body wash and shampoo from her earlier shower.

He dropped his hands to her thighs and pushed the dressing gown to the side. "Your skin is so soft," Sherlock whispered against her jaw. "Like silk."

Molly whimpered. "More."

She didn't have to ask him twice. He blindly plucked at the gown sash, reluctant to pull his mouth away from her neck long enough to look at what he was doing. The knot gave away and the gown parted after a frustratingly long moment.

They both groaned when his hands finally slid under the fabric to ghost against her abdomen.

"I love your voice." Molly dragged her nails down his chest just hard enough to make him shudder. "I'm already wet, and you've barely even put your hands on me."

Her tongue delved between his lips. He could taste the lingering traces of her minty toothpaste in her kisses. His hands roamed. He found the dip of her waist, the smooth line of her back, the curve of her arse.

"You have a delightfully filthy mouth, Molly," Sherlock gasped against her hair as she bent to nip at his chest with her dainty teeth. The slight sting made him bite his lower lip to keep from moaning like an adolescent fumbling his way through his first sexual encounter.

Contrary to Mycroft and John's belief, he'd had sex before. An unsatisfying encounter his first year in uni, purely to alleviate boredom. Easily forgotten in favour of The Work. And, of course, his friendship turned ill-fated love affair with Victor that last year of school. The one that had convinced him to agree with Mycroft's assertions that sentiment was a weakness. But that had been before Molly and her pretty lips, firm breasts, intelligent mind, morbid sense of humour . . . He suspected he'd never be able to delete this moment, even if he wanted to.

Molly bit down on his nipple and Sherlock gave up trying to muffle himself. She seemed to have a thing for his voice, after all. He would have to be an imbecile to deny either one of them any longer.

He wrapped his fingers around a handful of her hair and gently tugged her head back so that he could see her face. "I've been half hard all morning, thinking about the things you said."

She smiled mischievously even as her cheeks flushed pink. "What can I say, you inspire me."

"Ah, yes. The shirt." He honestly didn't see what was so special about it, but he planned to visit his tailor first thing Monday to order another one. Or two, Sherlock thought as he remembered Molly's comments about ripping opening his buttons the night before.

"Not just the shirt, although I've had plenty of filthy thoughts involving it specifically." She pushed the item in question off his shoulders. He leaned away from the back of the settee to help her remove the shirt, nearly unseating her from his lap. Molly laughed and pressed herself against him to keep from falling backward.

This time it was her turn to gasp as her naked breasts came into contact with his bare chest. Her skin was warm where his was cool.

"It's you." Molly swallowed hard and reached up to brush her fingers against his cheek, almost reverently. "Just you. Your hair, your eyes, your smell." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "God, you smell good."

When her brown eyes opened again and she looked at him, Sherlock wondered how he'd ever been able to convince himself that he'd be able to continue to resist her.

"You have no idea the things I've wanted to do to you over the years." Her gaze dropped to his lips as she whispered, "With you."

He swallowed hard. "And this morning?"

She shrugged out of the dressing gown and let it fall at his feet. He'd deduced she was nude beneath the silk gown, but the reality of her straddling his lap without a stitch of clothing was better than anything he could have imagined. "This morning, Sherlock, I want to hear you beg."

The need to grind himself against the apex of her thighs made his fingers dig into the flesh of her hips in a bid for some semblance of self-control.

Molly whined in the back of her throat, then rolled her hips forward as if seeking the same contact he desperately desired.

"If I hadn't been drinking last night, would you have let me slide to my knees on that cab floor? Let me pull your cock out and make you moan my name? Make you plead with me to let you come?"

Some last vestige of rational thought told him that there was no way he would have agreed to expose himself in a public cab, much less engage in any sort of sex act; but by God the mental imagery made him ache.

She leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Would you like me to do it now?"

"Christ, yes," Sherlock gasped in a ragged voice. "Make me beg."

It briefly occurred to him as Molly stood and reached for his zip that he had somehow lost control of this encounter. It had all seemed so straight forward when he'd planned it during the night. He would indicate his desire to move their relationship to a physical level, she would stammer and blush at his blunt declaration before agreeing, there would be a bit of foreplay in which he most assuredly would not lose his head in the heat of the moment, and then they would move to her bed to consummate the relationship.

Yet somehow, here he was. In very real danger of coming in his pants because Molly Hooper was about to kneel between his legs and put her pretty little lips around his cock.

He had just enough presence of mind to raise his hips when she tugged at his trousers. His pants quickly followed suit, and before he had a chance to do more than say her name she was touching him.

Sherlock's head fell back against the settee as Molly's small hands wrapped around his erection. At this rate they were never going to make it to the bedroom, and he was rapidly losing his will to care.

His eyes popped open when he felt her take him into her mouth. Her tongue was hot and wet against his glans, her lips were soft and . . . Fuck.

Sherlock's nails scratched across the faded floral settee cushions as he fought the urge to touch her. Would she like it if he wrapped her long hair around his fingers? Urged her to take him deeper? To move faster?

As if she knew what he was thinking, Molly hummed in approval. The vibration along his cock nearly sent him over the edge.

"Molly, please. I can't . . . Christ. Please . . ." he begged, almost incoherent.

She released him with a deliciously wet—almost obscene—pop and sat back on her heels. Her hands continued to work his shaft, keeping him agonizingly close to orgasm. "Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea what you do to me like this. Anything you want, just tell me what you need."

She leaned down to lick the head of his penis, swirling her tongue around the tip. Sherlock bit off another curse and settled his hands on her shoulders.

"Do you want to come?" she coyly asked, rubbing her cheek against his thigh as she looked up at him.

"No!"

Molly blinked, her brow furrowed in confusion. Her hands stilled, and he almost whimpered in protest.

"I mean yes, obviously I do. Very, very much so. But I want to make you come first. Need to. Please, Molly, let me do this for you." He knew he sounded desperate but it had been a very long time since he'd been with someone and he didn't want to leave her wanting. The joyful smile that brightened her face was more than worth a bit of delayed gratification.

She stood and held out her hand to him. "I said anything, and I meant it. If that's what you want, then I'm happy to indulge you. Somewhere more comfortable?"

_Thank God she was being sensible about this,_ Sherlock thought as he took the offered hand. He certainly wasn't. If it were purely up to him, he'd be taking her on the sitting room floor with no thought to comfort or even privacy. He threw a narrow-eyed glare at the indifferent cat that had curled up to nap on the suit coat Sherlock had draped across Molly's chair the night before, relieved that Molly's forethought had saved him from having his out-of-practice (and potentially short-lived) performance judged by the nosy feline.

They barely made it to her bedroom before his patience snapped. He had her in his arms, pressed to him from chest to groin, within seconds. Molly moaned his name. Her hands came around to grip his back. The scratch of her nails against his skin made him shudder.

"On the bed, Molly." He released her with nudge.

She slipped onto the bed on her hands and knees, and looked at him over shoulder. "Like this," she asked with a coy smile on her lips and a devilish glint in her eyes.

As he took in the pale expanse of her back and the perfect curve of her arse Sherlock very nearly said yes. He knew, without a doubt in his mind, that before he left Molly's flat, he would have her just like that. On her hands and knees, crying out for him to let her come as he took her from behind.

But not just yet.

"Molly," Sherlock growled.

She rolled onto her back and held her arms out to him. "Better?"

"Much." He crawled on to the bed and began to prove just how much he desired her. He spent time cataloguing the spots that made her giggle, that made her whimper and moan, and especially the ones that made her call out his name.

His nose brushing against the slope of the underside of her breast inspired giggling coupled with soft sighs. His mouth and lips against her nipples and the area just above her pubis earned whimpers. His head buried between her thighs, tongue hard and fast against her clit, caused her to tremble and cry out his name as she came.

He waited for her to catch her breath, pressing gentle kisses to her thighs and stomach in the meantime. "Good?"

"Fabulous," Molly breathed, barely audible. Her hand tangled in his hair, playing with the strands in a way that almost made him purr.

"Another?" he asked, even though his cock ached.

"Need you inside me, now." She tugged at his hair, urging him up her body. His spine tingled, erection bobbing in excitement, at the slight pull. That was an unexpected reaction; one that he filed away to examine later.

Sherlock took her mouth, determined to try to make up for all the time he'd wasted fighting his feelings for this woman while she loved him unconditionally, with no real encouragement that he'd ever reciprocate her fillings.

Did he? Was that what this was, this overwhelming need to be around Molly. With her. In her.

He tucked his face against her neck, afraid that she'd be able to read it in his expression. If it wasn't love, it was close. He should have deduced it the moment he realized he wanted her. Desire had always been linked with sentiment and feelings in him, they went hand in hand.

Even in his lust filled mind he knew that blurting out "I think I might love you" in the middle of having sex for the first time would be Not Good. At best she'd wonder if it was the sex making him delirious. At worst, she'd think it was some attempt at manipulating her.

No, if he told her—when he told her—the circumstances would make it clear that he meant every single word.

"Sherlock?"

He realized he'd stopped moving as his thoughts had overwhelmed him. Molly's hands were running up and down his back, as if she were attempting to sooth him. "Do you—do you want to stop?"

"No! God, no! I just-" He lifted his head and met her gaze.

"Too much?" She drew her lower lip between her teeth and looked so worried that he almost changed his mind about telling her right then.

"Have dinner with me."

She was confused, he could see it on her face. Hear it in her squeaked, "Right now?"

"Later. After. Tonight. I want to take you out and show you-" _How much I care._ "London. The way I see it."

Molly's smile lit up her entire face. "All right."

She really was beautiful. Why hadn't he allowed himself to see it before?

"But first." Sherlock shifted so he could reach the drawer of her nightstand and pull it open. He dug around for a moment and triumphantly brought out a foil packet.

"How did you . . . Damn it, Sherlock. You've been snooping through my things again!"

Considering their current position, he didn't think she was too terribly upset. Still . . . "Simple deduction. You're a beautiful, healthy, single woman who knows exactly what can happen to the unprotected human body, and you believe in being prepared."

And he'd been snooping through her things.

She relaxed beneath him, her thighs parting so that he settled between them. His erection, which had begun to wane somewhat, returned with a vengeance. He kissed her again. And again. And again. Until she was breathless, and as eager as he was.

Sherlock reared back to sheath himself, and then he was easing into her. It was better than he'd let himself imagine during the night. More, so much more.

Her hands slid under his arms and around his back to pull him closer. Her hips rolled and he was lost. There was no more thinking, no more analysing what made her gasp and shudder. Only warmth and softness and Molly and the need to come.

She hissed "Oh, God!" through her teeth.

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his mouth to scrap his teeth against the skin of her wrist, before urging her to slide it between their bodies to where they were joined. She caught on quickly, her fingers finding her clit. He could feel her movements against him, pressure and rhythm guaranteed to set her off quickly. There'd be time enough to learn how to do it for her, but not now.

All too soon—and not nearly soon enough—he felt her begin to clench around him. She moaned his name, a low keen that nearly made him come. It took everything he had to hold on, to continue to thrusting through her orgasm. As soon as her desperate grip against his back began to ease, Sherlock gave in.

Now it _was_ too much. Words of endearment poured from his tongue, almost none of them English.

Molly held him tight, as if she never wanted to let him go.

It had been a very long time since he'd trusted anyone enough to be this vulnerable with them. He'd considered intimacy with The Woman, but in the end her dealings with Mycroft and Moriarty had kept him from accepting her overtures. There had been Victor, but even then there had always been a small niggling of doubt that it was all just a lark on the other man's part. But once he'd decided to be with Molly there hadn't been a single worry that she'd abuse his trust.

He'd always trusted Molly. With everything.

Even, apparently, his heart.

Sherlock pulled her close and tucked his nose into her hair; hiding what was surely an idiotic, overly sentimental grin that would have made his brother roll his eyes.


End file.
